X

DECISION

When Fleur left him Jon stared at the Austrian.
She was a thin woman with a dark face and the concerned
expression of one who has watched every little good
that life once had slip from her, one by one.
“No tea?” she said.

Susceptible to the disappointment in her voice, Jon
murmured:

“No, really; thanks.”

“A lil cup—­it ready. A lil
cup and cigarette.”

Fleur was gone! Hours of remorse and indecision
lay before him! And with a heavy sense of disproportion
he smiled, and said:

“Well—­thank you!”

She brought in a little pot of tea with two little
cups, and a silver box of cigarettes on a little tray.

“Very young brother,” said the Austrian,
with a little anxious smile, which reminded him of
the wag of a dog’s tail.

“May I give you some?” he said.
“And won’t you sit down, please?”

The Austrian shook her head.

“Your father a very nice old man—­the
most nice old man I ever see. Miss Forsyte tell
me all about him. Is he better?”

Her words fell on Jon like a reproach. “Oh
Yes, I think he’s all right.”

“I like to see him again,” said the Austrian,
putting a hand on her heart; “he have veree
kind heart.”

“Yes,” said Jon. And again her words
seemed to him a reproach.

“He never give no trouble to no one, and smile
so gentle.”

“Yes, doesn’t he?”

“He look at Miss Forsyte so funny sometimes.
I tell him all my story; he so sympatisch.
Your mother—­she nice and well?”

“Yes, very.”

“He have her photograph on his dressing-table.
Veree beautiful”

Jon gulped down his tea. This woman, with her
concerned face and her reminding words, was like the
first and second murderers.

“Thank you,” he said; “I must go
now. May—­may I leave this with you?”

He put a ten-shilling note on the tray with a doubting
hand and gained the door. He heard the Austrian
gasp, and hurried out. He had just time to catch
his train, and all the way to Victoria looked at every
face that passed, as lovers will, hoping against hope.
On reaching Worthing he put his luggage into the
local train, and set out across the Downs for Wansdon,
trying to walk off his aching irresolution. So
long as he went full bat, he could enjoy the beauty
of those green slopes, stopping now and again to sprawl
on the grass, admire the perfection of a wild rose
or listen to a lark’s song. But the war
of motives within him was but postponed—­the
longing for Fleur, and the hatred of deception.